


On the Summer Air

by bold_seer



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Winter's Tale - Shakespeare
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: One king cannot marry another, Polixenes knows this.





	On the Summer Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



Before: Polixenes 

“When I return home,” he speaks. “I’ll marry.” Because marry he must. In time, perhaps, he will come to love her. His intended. Equal in birth, in rank, or nearly so. For do men and women ever truly stand on equal footing, even as King and Queen?

His Queen. Who bears a mark that wise men have declared complementary to his. They are a match. It has already been arranged.

Even though the only one he has ever - the only one.

They are young men, princes who will one day become kings, but who can still get away from the court. Riding, hunting. As men do. It is summer. Their days are sunny and careless. Half sitting, half lying in the grass, Polixenes looks down from the heights, out over the sea. This is Sicilia, he reminds himself. This land that keeps him here in place. Not his land, not by birth. By now, it feels as much a home to him as Bohemia.

“Who will you marry?” And Leontes shoves him down in the grass. Not cruelly, not in jest either, but with a possessiveness that borders on obsession. It would be unmanly to complain, and besides, Polixenes does not mind. The position recalls games in their youth. Playful fighting and innocent, unchained passions. Leontes fought like a lion, then, too. But when he _loved_.

“A girl,” he answers, oddly out of breath. Leontes keeps his arms pinned to the ground, as if he means to demonstrate something. His face is set, but his eyes - green at once, then hazel, and green again - betray hesitance that could be nerves. Polixenes does not challenge him. Hardly dares breathe, let anything on. Pretends this is ordinary. That he has never thought of this scene, a scene like this, before. Not pushing Leontes away, but pushing against him. To feel him. In the moment, Leontes’ hands and the weight of his body seem so much more real and exciting than those of a faceless bride. A distant wedding night, where duty rules over pleasure.

One king cannot marry another, Polixenes knows this. A man - a ruler - needs a complement. Not an equal. For how can two reign as one? Two crowns, two kingdoms, cannot be as easily united as two bodies. For a great ruin, or a great empire. Looking into Leontes’ eyes, he wishes they could.

He whispers, “I shall think fondly on these days.” Of you. Of us. And Leontes lets him go.

\--

Before: Hermione 

“What is he like,” she wonders out loud. “The King?” Her husband to be. Not a love match, but they are a match. Their marriage arranged because custom decrees it. Because the stars agree to it. Men in high towers - is it too much to ask for a woman? Paulina could do it, interpret the signs as well as any man, and better too - peering over star charts, interpreting the will of the Heavens. Hints of what is to come for those who care to notice. Virgo, east of Leo. They must look in that direction.

To Hermione. Because she is a princess, a suitable candidate. Because of the birthmark on her skin. What of love? Love she carries with her already. Other love will come.

She seems, she knows, like a maiden used to summer. Her hair, the colour of honey. Her eyes, a warm brown. But she has known winter, too, in Russia. Snow castles. Everything frozen. Fur trimmings on winter cloaks. Her breath rising like a spirit in the cool air. It has made her steely, with no hint of frostiness. Kindness she shows willingly, if carefully, after a moment’s deliberation.

Here, in this mild, temperate climate - though sometimes it is a hot country, heated speech and action - she may never face true coldness.

“There are no whispers of past misdeeds. Only platitudes of great deeds, good fortunes to come. He appears valiant as a lion. He inspires loyalty and love. What a crow would say, if a crow could talk.” Paulina’s hands brush by Hermione’s skirts. A breeze. “Yet some I heard seemed of the impression he has the air of a changeable man, whose temper could blow from calm to storm, in unforeseen conditions.” Paulina stills. “No one has seen such rage. Or can think of an example.”

“I would rather he were all cruel,” Hermione muses. “Or all kind.” To know nothing but cruelty is one thing. To feel the happiness break another. Her defence is dignity and perseverance. Will she weather gusts and gales, on that alone?

She holds Paulina’s hand to her breast. Tonight is not her wedding night. Tonight, no one will miss her. Even if she lies here, in the grass. With her friend - a lady.

“I shall be loyal in my heart, but practiced in the art of love.” She has never let any man feel her. A woman’s touch is not so dangerous. Without any tenderness at all, she thinks she would die.

Paulina touches her, then. Her breasts, her hips, her thighs, and she feels her body renew. She thinks, if a storm blew up, if a terrible winter fell on the land, if she lost her way in a blizzard, and turned into an icy statue, she could count on Paulina to navigate that white nothingness. To find her. To keep her warm.

\--

During: Leontes

With a chill down his spine, he watches over the Queen. His wife, _his_. Together with his boyhood friend, _his_. They stand so close, appear so close, with the intimacy that falls on co-conspirators. What conspiracy does he have to fear? A king should be pleased with amicable subjects. A man should be pleased his people get on. That they are not jealous of his affections, the attention he divides between his guest and his wife. Now focused on them both. They should get on. For wife and husband, what’s his is hers. For friends, what belongs to one belongs to the other.

Yet a marriage is not between three parties.

He hears them laughing. Does not stand close enough to hear the jest, is not laughing with them. They may be - _are_ \- laughing at him. They must be. Her hands on his. A light touch, so innocent. Not the other way around, not yet. The urge is strong. To tear them from each other, in a terribly brutal way. Demonstrate who Hermione belongs to, by any means. Perhaps in this very place? They are man and wife. He is the king. It is allowed.

That is madness. He loves his wife. (Does he? Does he _love_. He did not choose her.)

Or, he has a thought. He does not know where the thought comes from, only that it comes to his mind, it stays, it takes over, to take - 

Hermione’s hands are still touching Polixenes. At least, he thinks they are. He does not see her hands, at the present, but he imagines them. He imagines his wife’s hands. His wife’s hands inside his friend’s clothes. His wife’s caresses, increasingly intimate. Stroking Polixenes, smiling as she brings him to pleasure, the courteous whore. He imagines his friend’s hands on his wife. In his wife. (His wife’s cunt! Which belongs to _him_.) He sees, in his mind, though it must be true, for these are vivid images. Visions sent by some heathen god, some devil. To taunt him of things that were and are? Under his nose. Warn him of things to come? In his palace. Polixenes pushes inside her. Leontes is watching. His wife is open and willing, and she takes him. Her face twists with pleasure. Her innocence fades. Leontes watches. He sees.

Then, suddenly, the scene shifts. Leontes, no longer watching, only. He is looking at himself in a mirror. He stands where his friend stood, in his place, as he should - this is his martial bed. Covers dark and heavy. But it isn’t his wife under him, in his bed.

It _is_ his wife that he loves. Loves as a man loves his wife. As is his duty. Loved, before she showed her true self. False, false. She must have been with this man before. His friend - no friend - he should despise. That he should wish death upon. Let Polixenes die for taking what is his. Let Hermione be charged for her betrayal. It is not the other way around, surely?

His anxious mind spins on. If he feels love for them both - he feels, _felt_ love for his friend. But not, _not_. Does that not prove his suspicions? That Hermione can claim to love one man, making love to another. That Polixenes can. This way lies madness, but Leontes does not feel mad. He feels vengeful and vigorous. His body fills with hot determination. A certain, righteous fury spurs him onwards.

And besides. What is madness? He looks at his wife and his friend, suddenly overcome by grief. At what was. What he must do. Is it not mad, he thinks. Is it not mad to love?

\--

After: Paulina 

The stars were wrong, or the wrong men read the wrong signs. The King is at fault. The Queen is dead. Their marriage over, ending in tragedy. Paulina has lost something - many somethings - as well. Unless?

She touches the statue; it comes alive. Hermione breathes in Paulina’s arms. Paulina holds her. But the marriage is broken, still.


End file.
